Apfel
by bed of nails and sandpaper
Summary: East London is grey all over. Teen misfit and future revolutionary, Matt, is making what he can of it. When Tai, a fellow nobody, moves into his block of flats Matt finds himself facing some truths. Some things are fixed while others break and the rest is left to burn. Love isn't always about romance...graphic violence, sex and language from the start. Taito Yamachi
1. Chapter 1

**I know that this is a bad time to start a story. I always get distracted. The thing is I'm having trouble with my other stories because I can't really identify with the culture. I have to do a lot of research before writing which puts limitations on where I want to move the plot. So, for a change, I've written a story that's set in my country so that I can write it a lot easier. It's dark, it's gritty, it's raw and has a lot of London slang in it, so it may be hard to read. But, from what I've written so far, I have big plans for it. I'm still working on my other stories, but this one is just a chance for me to take a bit of a break from trying to appeal to international readers.**

**So. here it is.**

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Die Musik von den Wölfen

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Music's part of the culture here. If it wasn't played all the time you'd hear nothing but sirens and shouting. It kind of paints the place. Everything's grey without it. I mean, I don't have the same taste as everyone else, but music is music. Genre doesn't matter if it sounds nice. I don't even mind rap sometimes so long as it's not some amateur's sample tape where he raps about pussy and money that he thinks he has but doesn't.

My Mum and Dad were punks in the eighties. I've got a picture of her when she was my age in my room. She had half her head shaved and the other side was all spiked up and red. I took a lot of her old CDs with me when we left. Stuff like the Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Police. Pink Floyd's my favourite I think. Well, it's just a couple of their songs really. It's the kind of music you listen to and think 'yeah, these guys get me'. Makes me want to smash things and climb walls. When you get into it you feel like you could do anything and you don't give a fuck about what happens because of it. You can give that cunt that stole your trainers a punch to the fucking throat, and wank off on the desk of the dick teacher that called you a yob. It's music like that that makes you remember that rules aren't set in stone. They're made by old men sitting at desks who just make assumptions and don't know what the world is really like. They think that everyone has goodness and obedience in them. Well, what about us rotten apples? We must've just fallen to the bottom of the basket. But we're still there, and if you're not careful we'll ruin the whole batch.

I'm only sixteen now, but give it a few years and I'm gonna have my hold on the world. I've got music in me, too. I'm gonna make my generation into the new anarchists, and we're going to wreck the world more than anyone else. Me and my pack are gonna cause carnage once I sink my claws in deep enough. I can't wait. Smashing in a few car windows on other days doesn't do it for me anymore. I want riots and orgies. I've even thought of some good scars to get. I want one going right across my forehead so it looks like I could just peel it back and show my brain to everyone. Or maybe one going down my neck. A good scar can have a million stories to it. Either that or I want my face tattooed to look like a wolf or something. That way I could make my bitch bark when I fuck them from the back. And I'll howl when I cum. Of course I'll play a bit of Ozzie while I'm doing it. Maybe if they get into it enough they'll let me bite them.

I always hated doing it in his bed. I would've even preferred the back garden. It always made me stink of flowers. His wife uses some fancy floral fabric softener or something, but it keeps rubbing off on me. I'd been wearing the same top for four days though, so when I pulled it on I felt a lot better having my stink back on me.

"Don't you want to stay for dinner or something? Jen isn't back until late."

"Nah. I've got shit to do."

Yeah. I planned to have a spliff and stare at my ceiling for the rest of the night. Still a hell of a lot more exciting than listening to him. He was a fucking bore with a cock half the size of his fucking mouth. Bender always tried talking to me like I gave a shit about what he had to say.

"What was it I said? £90?"

"Yeah. Just put it in my pocket. I'm getting a drink."

He paid well though. He didn't used to, but I got wise and realised how desperate he was to keep this up. I mean, I'm of age now, but I wasn't when he gave me the first offer. That's got to mean something. Maybe he's too scared to find another boy. He jumped around the subject with me for ages before he actually did anything. He'd text me these weird, vague messages and asked me to do odd jobs for him so he could feel me up in private. He's just lucky he picked someone that doesn't give a shit. Anyone else and he'd be having his arse hammered by a butch Jane in a jail cell. I bet he just doesn't want to have to go through all that hassle again, so he pays what I say. And I'm not complaining.

Walking down his stairs just reminded me of everything I hated in our society. Domesticity, complacency, tradition, social expectation. He had a wife and three kids that he didn't care about but kept so he could hide his lust for young boys. He let her do the decorating because there's a certain tick list for every family home that needs fulfilling. Floral curtains, a tv as big as you can afford to be the kids' second mother and everything's got to be colourful because psychology states that a child growing up in a blank space grows up to lack creativity and may develop a social disorder. That's why mum let me help paint the flat when I was young. I think the Rolling Stones would have a good idea what I wanted to do to this place. We'd be the best collaboration of interior designers.

I nicked a beer from his fridge; one of the posh types in a glass bottle. He couldn't really stop me. He'd be a hypocrite if he did and I'd call him out for it. Too young to drink but old enough to sell my body? That's a bit perverse. I'm too young to wreck my body, but old enough to let others do it for me. See what I mean when I say that the rule makers don't understand the world? Us young prostitutes deserve a drink now and then after all our hard work keeping the family men from blowing their brains out when they're overloaded with pent up sexual frustration.

I downed half of it in one go. Selling your self respect is thirsty work after all. I could hear him getting dressed upstairs so I made sure to finish the rest quickly before he came down. He came in wearing his suit, even the tie, and handed me my jeans with the money in the pocket. I put them on without really saying anything and felt him watching me. He spotted my empty beer on the counter and went to the cupboard.

"I have more than just beer, you know. I've got some gin if you want it."

"Yeah, alright."

He pulled out a half empty bottle and a couple of glasses. I jumped up to sit on the counter next to him when he started pouring. He filled one glass half way and the other right to the brim. I took the full one before he could give me the other and he sighed, not bothering to pour any more into his own.

"Cheers."

He raised his glass to me and I ignored him. I filled my mouth with as much liquor as I could fit and swallowed it in two gulps. I think he was a bit surprised that I didn't cough or anything after it. Maybe he thought this was my first time having a proper drink. I felt him looking at me again when I finished my drink and hopped of the counter, ready to rush out the door before he could ask me to spoon him or something. I let him do it once, and afterwards he had the nerve to try and kiss me. I would've punched him if he hadn't paid me extra afterwards.

"Thanks for the drink."

I mumbled and nudged him with my shoulder when I walked by. I liked treating him mean. It made me feel powerful. He'd still call me again no matter how cruel I was to him. Sometimes I even thought of tagging one of the walls for his wife to see.  
'John's cock likes me better. Love Matthew age 16'  
She'd throw a fucking fit I bet. It'd be funny to watch. And then his little baby girls would walk in and ask him what a cock was. Or maybe I could just take a piss on his bed and mark my territory. Of course I'd rob him for all he had before I did any of that, otherwise who else was going to buy me a new guitar?

I didn't bother tying up my shoes. I just tucked the laces into my socks and left, more than ready to get the fuck out of there now that I had my allowance. It was dark and cold like it always was. I don't know why people would come to London on holiday. It's fucking miserable as far as I've seen. I'd be happy if it burned to the ground. At least then it might get a bit warmer.

I walked over to my bike that was chained up to his porch. The old woman across the street was looking out her window at me again. She probably knew what was going on but didn't fancy making a fuss by reporting it. Instead she'd just gossip about it with her husband who was equally indifferent. If someone asked her why she didn't tell the police she'd probably act all fucking naive, saying that she thought I was his nephew or something. Yeah...a nephew that came round for an hour or so every week after dark and made sure to leave before his wife came back. Old people just act stupid for sympathy.

I put on my head phones and tucked my mp3 into my zipped up hoodie. 'King of Pain' came on from where I'd left off, just when the drum kicks in, and I swung my leg over the bike seat. The old bat was still watching. The curtain she'd pulled half across her didn't do as good a job at hiding her as she thought, stupid bitch. I pulled my hood half across my face so my mouth only showed and I gave her what I could of a smile, just to take the piss. She jumped away from the window when I did and I was left laughing to myself when I finally cycled off home.

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**That's the preview. I hope it got some of you interested**

**Bed. Of. Nails. And. Sandpaper**

**x**


	2. Chapter 2

Die Zunge des Hunds

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"Get the phone."

I didn't answer. Roxanne was acting up. Her strings were too close to the fret. I was busy fixing her up with one of my earphones in blaring out 'Did You No Wrong' loud enough for the inside of my ear to start aching. So, I just ignored him. If I did it long enough he might get off his fat arse and walk the meter and a half to get the phone himself.

"Matthew, get the phone."

I kept strong. But his voice was like a cheese grater to my skull. On top of that the phone just kept screaming like a dog thrown in an oven. It was doing my fucking head in. It was getting harder to keep my soft touch on her. I was scared I was going to pluck her too hard and end up snapping something.

"Boy, get the fucking phone!"

"Shut up! I'm getting it!"

I tucked my mp3 into my pocket and wrapped the earphones around my neck so I could carry it with me. Roxanne hung from her strap around me and I kept her close as I stomped to the phone that was two rooms away from me and two steps away from him. I tucked my hand in my pocket and gave him the finger as I walked by, pointing it at him like a mugger would point a gun in an alleyway. I grabbed the phone on the living room table and tucked it into my neck instead of bothering to hold it. All the while I was moving my fingers on the fret board to the solo I could just about hear from my hanging headphones.

"Yeah."

"Hi, sweetie. It's mum."

"Oh, hi mum. You alright?"

I always talked different to mum. I didn't do it on purpose or anything. I guess I just respected her. I kept my swearing down, I pronounced my consonants and all that, I didn't slag her off and I listened. Her and my brother are the only ones in the world I wouldn't beat down if I got the chance. I even stopped tapping out the solo so I could hold the phone and giver her my full attention.

"Yes I'm fine. T.K's fine, too. Is that my CD in the background?"

"Yeah, Sex Pistols. I've got my mp3 near the phone."

"That's a good song."

"Yeah, I know."

"Would you mind passing me onto your father?"

"Yeah, will do. Talk to you later."

"Bye, sweetheart."

I chucked him the cordless phone as soon as I was done talking to her and it landed in the crease between his beer belly and his man tits.

"Who is it?"

"Find out yourself."

He probably would've ripped the shit out of me if he didn't have the phone in his hand. I went straight back to my bed to try and fix Roxanne, but looking at her a bit closer I saw that she was pretty much beyond saving. This was as good as she was ever going to get. She was old and cheap with all sorts of problems. I'd already replaced all her strings twice over the years and had to tape over her plug because it was loose. It wasn't that I thought I'd keep her forever, I just thought she'd last a bit longer. At least until I could afford her replacement. I had my eye on a white Fender Strat. Vintage. I trekked all the way to the west end to get a look at her. The wanker wanted 850 for her and I was just over half way. John's been a great help with that since he was calling me once a week by now. I'm not too bothered about that, though. It's his life he's risking. I'm just an innocent young one with a wrecked childhood to back up my poor decisions.

I could hear him on the phone in the other room. His voice was getting louder. It made me restless. He was probably going to be in a pissy mood if I was still here when he got off the phone with mum. So, I decided to get out. I grabbed a couple of random notes from my shoebox of savings under my bed and jammed my shoes into my Vans. Then, I put Roxanne back in her case and kicked my door open, checking my bag pockets for my keys and phone before walking out into the living. It was hard to resist smacking him on the head as I walked by. The way he talked to mum really pissed me off. I was squeezing my fists in my pockets really hard just to stop from telling him off. Just when I got to the door he put the phone to his chest and shouted after me.

"Oi! Where you going?"

"Out."

I didn't let him say any more. I slammed the front door shut and headed towards the stairs.

I usually don't bother to look up until I get downstairs otherwise I get in a bad mood. There's a lot of graffiti outside the flats and none of it can be considered art. Usually it's stuff like 'Jonah, if I see you I'll fucking murder you', or 'Bex gives a good cock wash *insert her phone number*'. There was a funny one that I saw a while ago that got painted over. It was of Boris Johnson with dicks for hair and fingers. If I had a camera phone I probably would have taken a photo and used it as my wallpaper.

You have to remember not to breathe in too deep when you go down the stairs too or else you get a lungful of piss fumes. I had my sleeve over my mouth as I went down them and with my hood up as well I couldn't see a lot. So, when I got to the pile of cardboard boxes at the bottom I obviously tripped over them. I didn't fall on my face, but I stumbled a bit and one of my shoes almost slipped off. That made my bad mood worse. I would've trashed those boxes if I hadn't realised that it'd be pointless. They were empty anyway and obviously abandoned because they were someone's rubbish. There were names and rooms written on the side of them. Someone must've finished moving in. I felt sorry for them. The first day in hell is the worst.

I kicked a few boxes across the road anyway just to relieve some of my frustration. Then I started walking towards town thinking about what I could do to entertain myself. It was February and it was colder now than it was at fucking Christmas. We didn't get snow, though. Snow was the only weather I really like. The heat in summer always made me sleepy, like I was supposed to hibernate, and in England Spring hardly existed anymore. It just sort of went back and forth between freezing cold and rainy until suddenly a heat wave would just punch you in the face and summer would start.

I think I might've said it before, but everything is grey. It's Saturday afternoon, the city centre is packed up tight with people, but there isn't any colour. Everything's muted and dark. There's nothing interesting to look at no matter what direction I turned my head. I came outside to find some entertainment, but there is none. It's like...porridge. Everything is porridge without sugar. Everyone's made of porridge and the shops are selling solidified, bottled, smeared on and cut up porridge in all its forms. They don't even mix it with milk. They just use water.

I turned up my music really loud and felt a sting in my head. At least I can get some colour in my head even if my eyes don't get any. I do this a lot. I pretend like I'm on one of those airport treadmill things and just float on by, not paying attention to anything except me.

Eventually, I saw something a bit different from usual. I hadn't had a proper look around town in ages since I always assumed it would be boring as always. It was a new shop with a big plastic mould of a boot on the sign. I recognised the shape. My mum had a pair of boots just like that when I was younger, so I knew what the sign would say before I even read it.

Doc Martins.

I walked right up to the shop and squinted at it for a while, debating if it was worth my time to go in or not. It was emptier than a lot of the other shops and was smaller than them all as well. Probably didn't get enough customers to make it any bigger. Looking down at the display I realised why. One pair of boots was a hundred and twenty quid. Special edition I guessed. Some dickhead artist had scribbled all over them to make them apparently more valuable. To me they just looked like a nice pair of boots that'd been attacked with a sharpie.

In the end I just went in. What else did I have to do all day?

The boots were all stacked up on the wall like steps on a ladder. They were all different colours and shapes, but they all looked really familiar. I've seen them on some of my posters and album covers as well as on my mum. There was one pair close to the top that really caught my eye. They looked just like I remembered. The first time I saw a pair was when mum cleaned out her wardrobe and showed them to me. She said she'd give me them when my feet were big enough if I wanted them. Yeah, I definitely wanted them. Of course, by now, my feet were probably too big. I didn't take them with me when we left.

These ones were different to hers, though. Hers were black with scuff marks and scratches all over them. She'd worn them so much that she made a huge crease where she kept bending her toes. These were a sort of burgundy and they were polished and perfect. They shined like oil with not even a single fingerprint on them. They looked all lonely and pure up on their plastic stand on the wall, like a virgin princess locked up in a tower.

"Do you want to try them on, darling?"

She came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder like she thought I was her son or something. I turned around to look her in the eye and I gave her a dirty look. She didn't react to my face or anything, though, so I guessed that she'd actually meant to come and talk to me. Most people who meet me by accident usually show this sort of horrified look when I make eye contact. I think I must have the devil in my eyes.

Anyway, yeah, so this bitch was smiling at me like someone had a knife to her back so I stopped eying her and just looked back at the boots I was lusting for. Looking at her made me feel a bit sick. I could tell her type just by looking at her. Saggy tits in a push up bra meant lots of kids but no husband and the painted gold hoop earrings and bright pink eyeshadow told me that she was still looking. She probably wouldn't find one with that face though. I know I have a canine fascination but _no one_ wants to fuck a pug in lipstick.

"What size are you, sweetheart?"

"Nine."

"I'll be right back."

She shuffled off like she was in a 50s cartoon and I just sat down on one of the cube seats to wait for her. I kept my eyes on those DMs the whole time. I looked at their flawless leather and the laces tied so that the loops of the knot where the exact same length. The sight of them made me ache in a different way than before. A nice ache. Like someone was running a hot rolling pin up and down my back.

I was stuck staring at them the whole time she was gone. Then she came back with a shoebox and a 'mum' sort of smile. Like she wanted to wrap me up in a blanket and squeeze me against her tits. Then she knelt in front of me to put the shoes on and all these nasty images of her sex life popped into my head suddenly. She was way too close to me and my legs were spread out so her head was between them. I thought I was going to throw up on her back.

"That's alright, I'll put them on."

She looked up at me and nodded her head before she dragged her hefty arse to stand.

"Alright then, darling. You call me if you need anything, alright?"

Then she tottered off to the counter to bother the only other customer. He didn't look like he appreciated her help either. At least now she could make him feel sick instead of me.

So, I got the shoebox up onto my knees and took it slow opening it up. It was like spreading a virgin's legs. And inside was tissue wrapped, cardboard filled glory. Just like the ones on the shelf, but these ones were for me. Just looking at them made the decision. I was going to have them. Sixty quid, but if you jerk a pedo's cock long enough money comes out of it, and I'd gotten more than enough. It'd put me back a short step away from buying my guitar, but a blowjob could easily settle the difference.

I picked them up and threw the box off me with my leg. When I put them on I felt like a different person. I took a few steps forward and found that I even walked like a different person. I felt taller, stronger, more powerful. They suited me.

I couldn't buy them.

Sure, I could pay for them and think about sucking John's dick every time I put them on.

Or...I could give them a bit of sentimental value.

I made sure the laces were on tight and didn't bother to pick up my own shitty Vans before I sprinted out the shop like my balls were on fire. I didn't even slow down to put my bag strap over my shoulder, I just bunched it up in my hand and kept running. There was no shouting or alarms going off behind me. I think they didn't realise yet that I'd left. Either that or they had really bad security. Whatever. I just kept running anyway. I was having a ball tripping up pedestrians and leapfrogging over bins and benches.

I ran all the way to the park and leapt straight onto the monkey bars. I dropped my bag below them and kept climbing until I was sitting on the highest point and looking over the fence to the motorway in the distance. All the little cars were lined up like ants on a trail so I reached out with my hand and entertained myself by crushing them between my fingers. I had to imagine for myself the squishing noise they might make. I just thought back to when I squashed a particularly juicy mosquito and all the blood in its belly exploded out onto my fingers.

"Oi, why weren't you in school yesterday?"

I looked down, down, down, to the bottom of the climbing frame a saw ginger looking up at me. Sora. I could see down her top the way I looked down on her. Not that there was much to look at. She had a pair of pimples at best. I burst out laughing when I thought of her boyfriend pinching her nipples and suddenly popping one of them. She gave me a look afterwards and crossed her arms, only pressing her boy tits down even further.

"I was sick."

I laughed and she flicked her hair like she thought she was a woman. Hilarious.

"I bet that's a fucking lie."

"_I _bet I caught one of the STIs floating around you."

"Shut the fuck up."

She had a heavy Essex accent and her voice got really high pitched when she was angry. It's always been fun to wind her up, which is why I do it so often. I can go a bit far sometimes, according to other people, but I don't really see a boundary. I care about her feelings probably as much as I care about her. So...not at all, really.

I grabbed hold of the bar I sat on and let myself fall through the gap between the bars. I swung down right in front of her and she had to jump back so I didn't kick her in the face with my new boots. She had that look on her face like most people do when they look at me. A little bit of fear and disgust mixed in with something else. Everyone adds their own little something to the mix but it usually ends up looking pretty much the same. I tensed my arms and started swinging, kicking my legs out on purpose so she'd take another step back.

"Mind not standing too close? I can smell your dirty pussy from here."

"Fuck you!"

"Woof! Woof!"

I must've made a pretty convincing dog because she leapt away from me like I was going to bite her. I laughed so hard I ended up dropping off the monkey bars and rolling around on the tarmac. She went bright red and I thought my ribs might burst through my chest from laughter. She stormed off, pulling down her denim skirt from the back so I wouldn't see her flat arse and her knock off Juicy Couture panties. As you could have guessed, I saw them anyway. Nothing special. The skinnier they are the less there is to look at I suppose.

"See you Monday!"

I called after her in a cheery voice while I pulled my bag towards me. She turned around gave me a good screaming at.

"Piss off!"

Then I laughed some more while she stormed off and took my phone out my bag – my shitty nokia. It worked though. I could play 'snake' on it too, which was pretty retro I guess. I scrolled through my contacts, all five of them, until I got to the bottom. Willis. I thought I might as well call him while I have nothing else planned today.

"Hey. What's up?"

"Nothing. Have you got any weed on you?"

"No weed. I've got skunk, though. You looking to buy?"

"Yeah, that's fine. I'm in the park right now. Can you meet me?"

"I'm having lunch. I can be there in, like, twenty minutes."

"Alright. I'm in the play area."

"Cool. See you in a bit."

"Later."

I put my phone back in my bag and rummaged through the inside pocket for my money, just checking I hadn't dropped any while I was running. Yeah, it was all there. I've never really been a fan of skunk. It made me all broody and itchy a lot of times I'd had it. But at least it gave me something to do in the evening. Otherwise I'd just be staring sober at the wall until I fall asleep or go mad and put my fist through it.

I got up slowly and put my bag over my shoulder, thinking about how I could waste some time. Then, I caught sight of red in the corner of my eyes. My nice, clean, brand new boots; so innocent and fresh on my feet. I'd almost forgotten about them.

I took out a cigarette from my pocket and lit it up without any fuss then walked over to the grassy area of the park. I took a good ten seconds to take a mental photo of them as they were. And, after that, I set to work tearing the shit out of them. I kicked up the grass like a maniac to get them nice and muddy and made sure to bash them against any chunky rocks I came across. I even got to squash some real ants while I worked, and some fat woodlice, too that made a good crunch. Once I'd bruised and dirtied them nicely I dropped onto the grass and took out my pen knife to put a few scratches on them, just deep enough to get some of the paint off the top. Then, finally, I stubbed out my cigarette on the toe of the left boot. Perfect. It was a good start. Give it a year or so and they'd finally be mine.

I lit up another fag and headed back over to the play area to wait for Willis. The sun was just touching the top of the fence by now and the park was officially empty apart from a group of kids having a hipster picnic in the corner. They looked like they were about my age, I think. I might've even recognised one of the girls from my school. I felt like storming up and kicking over the bottle of cheap cider they had to share between them, just for a laugh. But before I could make any more plans my phone started ringing.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you?"

"By the swings."

"Right. I'm at the entrance, so, I'll be there in a sec."

"Alright."

I saw him coming in a matter of seconds. People said he and I looked kind of similar, except he dressed like he wasn't homeless like I apparently do. He was a cool guy, but pretty weird in my opinion. How many drug dealers do you know that wear red chinos and brogues? Well, I don't even know if he's really a drug dealer. He thinks we're friends, so he gives me discounts.

He waved to me as he came over and I didn't wave back. I just sat on the swing and started rocking myself with my feet still flat on the ground.

"Hey Matt."

"You alright, mate?"

"Yeah, I'm good. How much did you want?"

"Just the usual baggie."

"I must be a mind reader, then."

He pulled out from his jacket pocket a little see through bag with the green stuff inside. He handed it over to me and I took a look at it. It looked pretty fresh from what I knew about drugs, and when I opened it up and took a whiff I had to move my head back.

"Ah, that is grimey! That's not your usual type."

"Nah, I got a good deal from a new guy for this one. Still want it?"

"Yeah. D'you still want fifteen for it?"

"It's twenty for this one."

"Yeah, that's fine."

I reached down into my bag beside me and just grabbed a handful of notes. I brought them up to my face and counted out what I needed before shoving what I didn't back into my bag. Willis was looking at me suspiciously. I guess I looked pretty dodgy having a bag half full of crumpled fifty pound notes while I was still just a dirty teenager. Maybe he thought I robbed someone. Or maybe he thought I was part of a local gang. How flattering. He still took my money anyway without making any kind of comment. I stuffed the skunk into my jeans pocket and stood up.

"I'm off home, then. Thanks, mate."

"No worries. I'll see you round."

"Yeah."

He started heading back the way he came and I turned my back to him to leave through another entrance. Coincidentally walking right by the picnickers. I played it casual. I'm just an innocent youth, taking a stroll through the park. When, all of a sudden, oh no! I pretended to trip really dramatically and 'accidentally' kicked one of the guys in the back who was drinking from the bottle. The guy next to him shouted because the open bottle fell in his lap and the girls screamed because the first guy was coughing the cider into their faces. All the while I skipped merrily off, pretty pleased with myself.

"Wanker!"

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

The girls were the ones doing all the shouting after me and the boys did fuck all. I was fucking skipping away and none of them bothered to come after me. It was just a bit sad really. Mindless chaos really isn't rewarded enough.

I put my headphones in once I reached the park entrance and just walked the rest of the way home in a numb way. Like, when you're not really thinking about anything and walking becomes automatic. I put on some Rolling Stones to keep my brain from falling asleep and watched all the street lights turn on, lighting up my route like a runway.

When I got back to the flat my dad was still sitting down, but this time he was on the other side of the sofa and the place looked a little bit cleaner. Nothing impressive, though. He'd just put all the dirty stuff in the sink. I dropped one of my earphones and dropped my bag by the door.

"What did mum say?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Aren't they coming to visit next weekend?"

"She's working."

Fucking great. I walked across the living room and leaned right up against the telly so it'd at least feel like he was looking at me.

"What about-"

"He's got no one to drive him up."

"Well, why can't you?"

"I'm working."

"Then do it in the evening."

"Do you want to spend six hours driving to Surrey and back? Why don't you drive him?"

"I can't drive, dipshit."

He finally took his eyes off the screen and put them on me. He pointed a fat yellow finger right at me and leant forward in his seat.

"Don't talk to me like that. They're not coming. Get over it."

Then he just dropped back into the sofa and tucked his hand under his chin. I felt like ramming my head into the fucking television. I bet he didn't even want them to come. As if he gave a shit about being a father. He'd probably forget he has any fucking kids if I didn't come home occasionally. I wanted to do more than just hit when I walked past him to the balcony. An image came to mind of me kicking the back of the sofa so hard that he flies head first into the television and smashes the glass with his face. I put my other headphone back into my ear just to stop myself from trying to imagine the sounds that might go with that scene.

I slammed the balcony door behind me just to annoy him and sat cross legged on the floor, right up against the railings and furthest away from the door. I lit a normal cigarette. Smoking skunk while I was irritated like this would probably put me in a weird mood. So, I'd probably just have a few swigs of the shoulder of vodka in my sock drawer to put me to sleep.

That man. That fucking stain on the sofa. I reckon mum had an affair with the milkman when it comes to my brother and I. I hope so, anyway. I would gladly hack off what ever part of me came from that man that sat in the room behind me. Spineless. Lazy. Greedy. Completely useless to me in every way. I wouldn't even acknowledge him if he didn't pay my rent for the time being. I'd pay it myself, but I reckon he'd get suspicious about where it came from. If he sees that I own anything new or...not shit, he assumes I stole it. I've gotten into this thing recently that's really fun. When he asks me stuff like that I'd tell him the truth and he'd think it's a joke. That way we're both left laughing.

My music was still playing in my ears. Radiohead. I had to turn it off otherwise I'd end up probably throwing myself off the balcony in a depression. They were good to listen to on some occasions. You had to be really mellow, though, or you'd probably just upset yourself. You need to remember that their music's supposed to make you think about everything rather than just yourself when you listen to it. If you're caught up in your own problems then it's your own fault if you get depressed. So, I had the right mind to stop listening before that happened. Now, instead of my own music, I heard the London music again. Someone a few floors up was watching the music channel that I could hear and below me someone was playing their speakers in their bedroom and singing along. She was so bad she made the foxes start crying really loud. Either that or they thought her voice was a mating call and were trying to respond. Either way, that's not much of a compliment.

I pulled up my legs and pressed my chin down onto my knees really hard so my teeth clenched together. They squeaked a bit. Then, I held my hand out through the railing, raising my cigarette in toast to the night. The clouds looked like thick puffs of smoke and I held the cigarette the right way so it looked like they came from the lit end. It was amusing to watch for a little while. I didn't fancy brooding about what had just happened. So, they weren't coming. Whatever. Life is a sloppy limp dick, yeah, I knew that already. There's no need to whine and mope about it. I just decided to think about...smoke and the black chips of paint that were coming off the railings, and foxes fucking in the dark.

I wasn't bothering anyone with my musing on the balcony. My smoke out here was probably the only time I didn't try causing chaos. But, some fucker upstairs had different plans for me. I was thinking about all this deep shit and holding the smoke in my lungs. Then, I choked it all out of me in surprise when my hand suddenly felt freezing cold and I dropped the cigarette four stories to the floor. I brought my hand back through the railings and shook it off. Water splashed over the floor where I flicked my hand and I heard someone laughing from the floor above where the apartment should have been empty. That fucker had just poured water down my arm.

I jumped up and leant over the railing to try and get a look at the prick. From what I could hear it was a boy, and he was laughing his fucking arse off.

"Oi!"

I shouted up, but he ignored me. I stepped up on the railing to see if I could get a better look without breaking my neck.

"I'll smash your fucking face in if you don't shut up, right fucking now!"

"Go on and climb up then!"

"You're dead!"

I didn't give a shit about falling to my death. I got my foot sturdy on the railings and reached for the balcony above me.

"Matthew, come here."

I grabbed their railings and the prick's laughing stopped. I moved my foot to the top of my own railings when I got a good enough grip and started pulling myself up to the floor above. I got my feet swinging in the air like on the monkey bars and started pulling myself up onto the balcony, with the grooves from the railings digging into my hands. I got my head high enough to see a pair of red Reboks and I was prepared to commit this bastard's face to my memory as well before I messed it up. But, below me the balcony door was thrown open.

"Boy, you heard me! Get in here."

And my old man's feet went thumping off back to the living room. I just felt lucky he didn't try yanking my legs. My arms probably wouldn't have been strong enough to keep me up. I silently swore a vendetta when I heard this guy sniggering as I lowered myself down to my own balcony. I was planning already in my head to leave some lit fireworks there the next night or maybe find a couple of dead birds and leave him a message. I couldn't smash in his window because I'd get shit from the landlord for damaging property, so I've learned to be a little more creative when exacting my revenge on neighbours. That's why the flat above has been empty for so long. I'm saving _that_ story for my gravestone.

I dropped back down onto my own balcony with a scowl and stomped to the living room.

"What?"

I barked and looked up to see him standing instead of sitting for once. How rare. I crossed my arms and sat on the arm of the sofa while he was leaning against the television looking pretty angry. From behind his back he pulled out half a roach and showed it to me like he just pulled a rabbit out his arse.

"I found this in the sofa. You know anything about it?"

I didn't even bother to think before I scoffed an answer, not caring if it was a lie or not.

"No."

He flicked it at me and it bounced off my neck onto the floor.

"Don't lie to me, boy. That's not tobacco in there. It's yours, right?"

"So, what?"

He got all puffed up like a bird and looked me right in the eye. I just sort of rolled my head to avoid any spit getting on my face when he started shouting.

"What have I told you about drugs in the house? What have I told you a hundred fucking times about drugs in the house?!"

I sighed and kicked the spliff under the sofa with a sigh.

"I didn't smoke it inside. I put it in my pocket and it fell out. You'd smell it otherwise, wouldn't you?"

He pulled this disbelieving face but then just deflated. He didn't fight me any further and just walked up to the sofa to drop onto it. I had to quickly jump off my seat to avoid touching him. I played it off coolly, though and sort of shuffled to the other side of the room. I mumbled loud enough for him to hear.

"And this isn't a house. It's a fucking hole in the wall."

"Don't get mouthy. I'm letting you off."

"Whatever."

And that was the end of the argument. I expected it to be a lot bigger and more interesting than that by the way he started off shouting. Another thing I hate about him. He just gives up at the beginning of everything. If he'd worked a bit harder I might have told him that I not only smoked that spliff inside but I rubbed the ash into the carpet and stubbed it out onto the underside of the coffee table. And I did it more than once.

"Get me a beer, would you?"

I went to the kitchen, only doing so because I pitied the creature that asked me to nourish it. I got two cans from the fridge and popped open my own on the way back to the sofa. I dropped his can next to him on the seat and I perched down on the other arm of the sofa that was furthest away from him. I took a big gulp of my beer.

"Did I say you could have one?"

I growled and dug around in my pocket. I just about avoided pulling out the bag of skunk with the couple of coins I'd fished out. A few 50p coins, a lot of 10ps and a pound were held out in my hand. I tossed them onto the table in front of him and they made a loud clatter when they hit the wood. He put down his beer and swept the change into his hand. A quick count with his eyes, then he pocketed the handful with a nod and went back to his can.

He turned the TV volume back up so we could hear. I hadn't watched TV in ages, and now I remembered why. It was some comedy programme and some Oxford bred, apparent left wing, political enthusiast was going back and forth between intelligent insight and childish insult. I sensed that they were trying to hide their University intellect so that they could appeal to the lower intelligence of the masses. Yeah, because the lower class are all fucking idiots, right? Can't read any further than a take away menu, right? I could hear the pleas for mercy from my dying brain cells. Well, I didn't really want to lock myself up in my room for twelve hours, so I decided to watch for a bit longer. I gulped down half my beer and rested my feet up on the table, making a bang with my boots. They were so heavy I think I saw a chip of wood fly off when I dropped my foot.

I stepped into my head for a while and tuned out the television. I thought about the twat upstairs and what else I could do to make his life a hell. He had to go. No way I was going to let him live there while I was still here. Would I play it subtle and build up the tension? I could pull some 'tell-tale heart' shit and make his family go crazy. All it takes is patience. Or I could do the fun thing and just sneak in one night and destroy all their furniture. The landlord can't complain if the flat's unharmed. Personal property is free territory in my eyes, and more satisfying to smash.

"Where'd you get those boots?"

Dad asked me, looking down at them from the corner of his eye.

"Bought them."

"With what?"

"Money."

"From where?"

I laughed and flicked the top of my beer can absently.

"Blowjobs."

He snorted and looked back to the television.

"Very fucking funny."

Yeah...Yeah, it is.

* * *

**Chapter 2 done, and now you have a bit more insight about what kind of characters there are. Believe me, I don't intend for you to like Matt very much. You might come to like him later on though. I hope you guys are at least interested in this story. I told you it was pretty dark and gritty. I'm sorry about the foul language, too, if anyone's offended. To be honest I'm even trying to tone it down, but my character keeps trying to get away from me. Believe me I was tempted to write a lot worse than I have.**

**I hope you all stay tuned. And if there's any terminology that you don't understand then give me a shout and I'll include some translations in the A/N.**

**Bye bye for now.**

**Bed. Of. Nails. And. Sandpaper**

**x**


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